To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently. J. Keats
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. P. B. Shelley
COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please And love of havoc, (for with such disease Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde, A brotherhood of venerable trees,
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, Beggar'd and outraged !-Many hearts deplored The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain The traveller at this day will stop and gaze On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION
O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn ; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honour me :
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! -The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh As many do, repining while they look; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf with harsh impiety.
-Think what the home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants! -Roof, window,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch'd, would melt away! IV. Wordsworth
TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks, that household lawn, Those trees-a veil just half withdrawn, This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thce to thy latest years! Thee neither know I nor thy peers : And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scatter'd, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacédness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread; Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech : A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea: and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father-anything to thee.
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place: Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old
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